


you're on your own

by woodpaintedflesh



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: F/M, If I Stay AU, and im TERRIBLE AT UPDATING FYI, and it's not gonna be long, because for some reason i feel like tmi isn't very popular on this site yet??, i just thought of it in my head and hurt myself a little, idk buT HERE IT IS, it's sorta a song fic too? maybe, like less than 10 chapters, no one asked for this, originally on ffnet, so now u are all gonna suffer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodpaintedflesh/pseuds/woodpaintedflesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vaguely she feels slender fingers wrap around her arms to hoist her up. She opens her eyes just a crack and swears she sees a guardian angel, but she can't tell who it is and frankly, she doesn't really care. She's being rescued, and she decides in that moment that she will become a recluse and will never leave her stuffy apartment again. AKA the If I Stay AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments characters, I just play with them.
> 
> disclaimer #2: this whole fic is loosely based off If I Stay.
> 
> title from James Blake.

Clary Fairchild strolls  through the candy aisle of Party City. Simon Lewis, her best friend, sits in the basket of the shopping cart and snatches three bags of mini Snickers from where they were placed.

She sighs and moves faster, keeping him from grabbing anything more. “Simon, we do not need that many mini Snickers.”

“Two bags are for me,” he points to himself. “The last is for the kids.”

Clary rubs her forehead. “I’m not made of money. You’re paying for at least half of this.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

She pulls out her phone from her back pocket. She unlocks it and  opens up her camera. She takes a picture with Simon sitting in the cart covered in candy. Half of her face is in the corner with a wide smile and a thumbs up. She sends it to her brother, with a text attached: _@ the store. is this enough candy?_

He replies almost instantly: _ENOUGH!! THAT IS ENOUGH!_

Clary giggles. Already on the cusp of turning twenty, Clary and her twin brother Jonathan decided they were too old for trick-or-treating. After their mother had gotten sick, the three of them had created a tradition to just stay in for the night, watching scary films and eating a shit load of candy until the sun came up. It was tiny little luxuries like that, that Clary cherished. They weren’t the wealthiest family around, the three of them. Jocelyn was a single mother; Clary had never met her father before, and assuming he was still alive, she wants nothing to do with him anyway.

Clary shoves the shopping cart forward, Simon’s weight slowing her down, but eventually they make it to the cash register. The cashier looks utterly disturbed when she sees Simon sitting in the bed of the cart. He winks and mouths _Call me_ as they start towards the door. Clary smacks his head.

Bob Ross, Clary’s cat (in her defense, he’s big and fluffy and orange and has a weird sort of cat beard; she’s an artist, she couldn’t _not_ name him Bob Ross, okay?), greets them when they enter the apartment. She still has no idea exactly _where_ Bob Ross had come from, only that she’d come home one day and there he was, lounging on the couch. The balcony door had been left open when she left for class to send in a breeze through the stuffy apartment and apparently, to send in Bob Ross as well. She’d fed him, took him to the vet, and bought him a collar and a scratch post. And that had been that; Jonathan had no say, because Clary was already in love. She had no idea how old he was, but according to his wispy gray hair on his chin and in his ears, he’s pretty old.

He meows at Clary, then hisses at Simon. Simon hisses back. They never got along very well. Simon often calls him His Royal Cattitude.

Jonathan comes out of his room adorning dirty clothes, a plastic machete, and a Jason mask.

Clary sighs. “Really?”

Jon slips off his mask. “Great, you’re home. Put all that down—we’re going out.”

“What?” She says, startled. “Why?”

He grins at her. “I was invited to a party last minute at Pandemonium.”

Clary’s brows slam down. “But. I thought we were just going to hang out and marathon scary movies like we always do.”

“Exactly,” he says, exasperated. “Like we _always_ do. It’s time for a change.”

“But,” Clary protests still, “I don’t have a costume.”

Her brother shrugs. “Just go as a nerd like Simon,” he suggested.

Simon frowns down at himself. “I literally look like this every day.”

Jonathan looks at her pleadingly. “C’mon. Let’s just go have fun.”

A small lump forms in the throat. “But this was Mom’s favorite holiday.”

“She’s been gone for years now, Clary,” he gives her a sad smile. “I think she would want us to move on. I bet she’d be real happy if we did.”

She won’t admit it, but Clary _had_ thought about change before. But right now, change just seems... _unimaginable._ Especially on their mother’s favorite day of the year.

Clary shakes her head stubbornly. “No, that’s okay. You guys can go.”

Jonathan looks crushed. She hates it. “But—are you sure?”

Simon rubs the back of his head. “I can—stay? If you want?”

She looks at him. He shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. It’s clear how much he wants to go. “No, Simon. That’s okay. You can go with Jon.”

His lips quirk up. “Really?”

“Yes,” she laughs; it’s as if she’s giving him permission to live his life. But now that she thinks about it, Simon is almost _always_ with her, even more so since her mother died. “Besides,” she says cheekily, “you need a girlfriend. And I have total faith in you to achieve that,” she adds, even though she’s 30% sure he’ll die trying to flirt.

Despite his best efforts, Simon’s face heats up, but he doesn’t disagree. He’s going to a _party_ for god’s sake, of course he isn’t going to disagree. Clary doesn’t need to tell him he needs to get out more.

But if Clary is being honest with herself, it’s _her_ who needs to get out more. She and Jonathan didn’t really get the chance to go to parties or attend after school activities in high school; they needed to help their mother support their small family, so they got jobs instead of joining art club or trying out for the track team, and then their mother got sick. At that point, parties weren’t something they just got to go to. And now the both of them have their apartment, and _college_ is a thing, and well—as much as it sucks, studying is priority, especially with midterms coming up.

And stubborn is her middle name, so she stands there with her eyes narrowed and arms crossed as Jonathan snatches the keys to their shared car and flaunts out the door, Simon trailing behind him.

She grumbles to herself as she settles onto the couch and glares at the movie playing on the television. She isn’t even in the mood for a good, scary, shit-my-pants movie anymore. She’d planned on watching one with her brother and best friend, and they were now both out the door for a fun night. She knows she’s being ridiculous, and she should just _go_ , but. She won’t let her brother win.

Again— _stubborn._

She’s halfway through her new chosen movie, Carrie (the 2013 remake, because she’s pretty convinced that she’s Chloe Grace Mortez’s best friend, even if they’ve never met before), when her phone bursts out in song and gives her a heart attack.

“Luke. Hi.”

“Clary,” he greets cheerily. “So I’ve heard you’ve locked yourself away once again.”

 _Of course_ Jon called him. She resists  the urge to roll her eyes. Luke was the closest thing to a father she and Jon had growing up. And they never admitted it, but she’s pretty sure her mother and him were seeing each other before she died.

“Yes Luke,” she sighs and shifts her phone so it sits between her ear and her shoulder. “I’m spending the night by myself, which—” she adds brightly, “—sometimes, is good for my mental state. FYI.”

“Clary.”

She sifts through the candy bowl. “Hm?” she hums, playing dumb.

Clary hears him exhale heavily his nose. “You can’t keep hiding away in your room.”

She munches on a mini KitKat. “I’m sorry you raised me to be independent.”

He continues on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’re not at fault for your mom’s death. You can stop punishing yourself.”

“I’m not—!”

“You are.”

She tugs on her hair and swallows the lump in her throat. She _knows_ she’s not responsible for her mother’s death. No one is, really. She just wishes she could’ve— _seen_ it coming, _done_ something. Spend more time with her and spend less time being a brat.

His voice is gentle this time. “Go out tonight. It’s time for change.”

A protest is stuck in her throat but she can’t speak.

“Just try it out. If you hate tonight, then you know never to do it again and you’ll become a recluse and the cats will find you. Like, you won’t even have to leave your room, they will just flock to you. You’ll have a cat army, with Bob Ross as their commander.” She huffs out a laugh and he says again, “It’s time for change.”

“I know,” she says reluctantly.

“Alright, I better see drunk Clary photos on Jonathan’s Facebook tomorrow.”

She shuts down her laptop. She scoops up Bob Ross and heads to her room. “You know I’m slightly underage, right?”

“I won’t tell,” she can hear the smile in his voice. “Alright, go get all dolled up for that boy you’re in love with.”

She rolls her eyes. He’s talking about Sebastian Verlac and he’s really _not_ bad looking, but he’s not exactly Clary’s type; he attends parties every weekend and when we gets drunk, well... to put it lightly, he calls it “awesome” instead of “drunk” and once bit her in the back. She has scars to prove it.

She drops the cat onto the bed. “Thinking someone is cute—as in, cute _like a puppy_ —is not the same as being in love with them.”

“Whatever. Go have fun, is what I’m saying.”

“ _Bye_ Luke,” she waits for a response before hanging up and tossing her phone on the bed next to Bob Ross.

She lets out a heavy sigh at the boxes of books littering her room. Another thing that was on her agenda tonight: doing tomorrow’s vlog.

Clary runs a blog whenever she cans, which considering her life, is not that often. The blog/vlog started off focusing solely on book reviews, but somehow became bigger and suddenly she had a younger demographic of viewers who needed advice she was willing to give, and she even managed to slip in some drawing tutorials and vlogs going about her daily life. It was only ever meant to be something fun, something to do, but over the last few years, she’s accumulated enough viewers to create a small army. She’s happy with it. She’s even made a few friends, though they all stay anonymous. With her vlogs, it’s impossible to stay unknown but she doesn’t mind it. She even gets a small income for what she does. Jonathan still makes fun of her whenever she curls up on the couch with a trashy romance novel or writes a script for the next vlog, and she always retorts back with how he’s just jealous she can make a living off Youtube if she wants to.

But she doesn’t, because she’s an idealist. She knows she can’t review books and walk around the city with a camera forever. She’s at school to become an art teacher. Not the best job in the world, she knows, but she loves to paint and do photography and she’s decent at both so she’ll take what she can get.

And right now, all she wants is a good book and a lot of candy, but well. She really _does_ need a life.

So she turns her bluetooth radio to full volume as she gets ready. Halsey’s _Castle_ immediately erupts from the speakers, making Clary sigh happily. Halsey _is_ the queen.

She fumbles through her closet for something quick and Halloween-ish. She spots her black knee high boots, and digs out her fishnet tights. She pulls out the black lacy dress—a cute little number with her entire back exposed—she once bought a some time ago when she was feeling bold.

She does nothing with her hair because it’s wild with just the right amount of cuteness. She does take her time doing her makeup, though, because if she’s going out tonight, she’s going out to have _fun_ and to dance with boys and maybe if she’s lucky, to get _laid._

Lastly, she goes to the big closet in the living room. There’s a box in the back that she has to haul out, but she doesn’t have to search for long. She pulls out a battered witch hat from four years ago. It was part of the last costume her mother was able to wear, when her sickness suddenly became a _real thing_ and she was hospitalized.

Before Clary leaves, she remembers to put her Ventra card—really her only means of getting to _anywhere_ in New York—into the innermost pocket of her small purse. Then she puts all the candy she and Simon bought today in a bowl and sets it on the floor in front of the door for any children in her apartment building. She sticks a note on the door that reads _Literally Take All of Them PLEASE_

She sighs ruefully. All that candy to waste. _Sorry, Si._

She steps into the first Metro car when it arrives and groans internally. Apparently, there are a lot of late party-goers because all of the seats are taken. So she grabs hold of a metal bar closest to the doors and tries to keep her balance without embarrassing herself. Clary thumbs through her Twitter feed, updates with a _Sorry, no video tomorrow, being dragged out tonight!_ and responds to a few Tweets directed at her. Some of the messages from her viewers makes her feel warm inside. She really loves her life right now, and despite the hardships it took to get her there, she wouldn’t change a thing.

On the second stop, a boy a few years younger than her is pushed through the doors, followed by a guy around her age and—wow.

Tan skin and toned arms are her worst enemy. Tight fitted black T-shirt that spans across his obviously fit chest and a golden mop of hair sits on top of his head, messy as if he’d just gotten out of bed. Her eyes trail down the profile of his face, the angry contour lines between his brows, the slight downward curve of his mouth. _He’s got such a beautiful jaw,_ Clary thinks miserably. She wants to touch it.

“— _underage_ , Max,” he’s saying. “You can’t _sneak_ into Pandemonium anymore. I’m sick of coming out to get you—to find you, sick of this _game_ you’re playing.”

Max shrugs indifferently. The blond boy— _man_ , is probably a better term—sighs and pulls a pair of bulky glasses from his back pocket and hands them over to the younger boy. He takes them begrudgingly and shoves them on his nose.

The golden guy clutches the kid’s shoulder. “What’s going on with you, lately? Why the sudden rebellion?”

Suddenly Clary really hopes this guy isn’t the kid’s father who just happens to look really young because. Well, that’s just wrong.

Max shrugs again, making the blond sigh in exasperation. “Is it—are you—” he sighs again, trying to grapple for the right thing to say. “Is it because of a girl?” Max shakes his head. The guy’s mouth twitches (and Clary thinks he _must_ be young and therefore not the father and she is very grateful), “Okay, is it because of a boy?”

The kid shrugs a third time, although harsher, effectively removing his friend’s hand from his shoulder. “It’s for _me_ , Jace,” and Clary stores that name in her memory, “It’s for me,” he repeats. “I’m trying to be different. More like _you_ —and less like me.”

Jace’s hard demeanor softens (Clary can’t tell which one she likes better on him). “Why? You’re fine the way you are right now.”

“That’s just it,” Max argues. “ _Fine_ isn’t good enough. I’m sick of being  _fine._ Fine is boring, Jace. You’ve never been _just fine_.” Max breathes out harshly, and when his glasses start to slip, roughly shoves them back up. “In fact, that girl has been ogling you this entire time,” Max points to her and Clary tries her best not to choke because—great, just great(!), “and you’ve done nothing but lecture me.”

Jace’s gaze snaps to hers, and normally, she would look away and pretend she never even saw him, but this time she’s caught red-handed, so she stares back. But mainly she’s wishing she stayed home after all, sewing little uniforms for her inevitable cat army.

But she does _not_ blush. Not at all, despite the fact that the way he’s looking at her makes her want to flush all over.

She’s proud of herself. She’s cool.

A smirk plays on his lips. She raises an eyebrow at him, refusing to be embarrassed. She’s convinced she looks hot. In fact, she did her own makeup tonight and she’s wearing a short lacy dress, she _knows_ she looks hot. And he’s definitely checking her out.

Max shakes his head. “See? I don’t get it.” He lets his head fall back onto the glass of the door with a thump.

Jace snaps out of it, and quickly grabs Max. “Don’t do that,” he scolds, “those doors could open and you would fall through.”

Clary finds out, embarrassingly, it turns out that she has a thing for father-figures now. A really good looking guy with nice arms looking after a kid? Yeah, she’s weak.

But Jace doesn't get the chance to lecture him more. The car of the train makes a horrifying screech, coming to an abrupt halt. Startled screams fill the air and the sudden force sends Clary flying to the wall across from her. She catches herself just before she hits her head, but her ears ring nonetheless. Her stomach churns as she feels the car tipping onto its side. She panics, scrambling for anything to hold onto. Some people manage to get the door facing the sky open before the car topples over completely. But she’s too late to grab hold of anything and she falls, she sure to her death, to the other end of the car.

She’s still conscious when it happens and it feels like every bone in her body breaks. Her eyes are shut but she can undeniably feel the warmth of her own blood beneath her.

Vaguely she feels slender fingers wrap around her arms to hoist her up. She opens her eyes just a crack and swears she sees a guardian angel, but she can’t tell who it is and frankly, she doesn’t really care. She’s being rescued, and she decides in that moment that she will never leave her stuffy apartment again.

But of course, because she has the best of luck, in that second, the train decides to explode.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Simon doesn’t know whether it was a mistake or not, coming here without Clary. She was the best wingwoman he’s ever had (he ignores the fact that she was the _only_ wingwoman he’s ever had). On the other hand, whenever she was with him, girls always thought they were together and would stay away from him. At one point in his life, Simon would have died from happiness if he and Clary were dating. But he was a small, scrawny fifteen year old with a crush on an equally as small fifteen year old fireball.

She has always been a great wingwoman for him, even often pointing out the girls with the biggest... _assets_ (although she’s always been a hardcore feminist, claiming that the biggest asset is a girl’s heart; Simon usually agreed, if only to survive Clary’s wrath). But there are always downsides to Clary’s wingwoman-ness.  

For one thing, Clary is like, _extremely_ good-looking which is odd because she used to be an awkward bony teenager with frizzy hair. They were similar that way. Simon used to be too tall and lanky and weird with his big glasses and _manga_ (which, he’s learned to keep to himself since he’s been in college). He’s still a little too tall and awkward but he’s managed to gain a bit more muscle over the years using the gym on campus.

So where puberty did well with Clary, it didn’t with Simon, at least not in the way he’s wanted. Clary’s gorgeous these days and he knows it but it would be weird for the both of them to pursue a relationship. They’re too much like family. Which means she’s overprotective of him. So not only do most girls stay away from him when they see him and Clary together, but Clary always, if not subtley, scares off the girls who do approach him.

But now that she’s not here and Jon kind of left him to his own devices (which is something you should _never_ do as Simon is not a fully functioning human being yet and for which Jonathan will be hearing strong words from Clary once Simon tells her), he’s actually somehow managed to find a pretty cool girl to dance with. She’s almost as tall as him in her high heels (unlike Clary, who can’t even reach his shoulders in her heels). Her hair is long and dark and loose and he wants to run his hands through it. Her eyes are dark and calculating, like she can kill him in a blink of an eye which is pretty exciting. He can’t smell any alcohol on her breath (they’re _that_ close together) which means she chose to dance with him _sober_ and it’s the pretty much best thing that’s ever happened to Simon.

He’s still working up the courage to get her name when his phone vibrates in his front pocket. He takes a peek at who it’s from, but doesn’t read the message. The name reads Clary and Simon figures she’s probably texting about how bored she is or about how Bob Ross brought her another dead animal or even about how she’s had yet another Chloe Moretz dream, which, in Simon’s book, can honest to god wait until he’s gotten this girl’s number.

The girl squints at him. “You’re a lot scrawnier than I thought you were.”

Simon’s heart lurches. “Oh, wow. And you’re a bit overbearing for my taste.”

She raises a brow, seemingly unimpressed. “I never said I wouldn’t try you out.”

He’s considering it. Really, really considering it. But Simon just isn’t interested in a one time thing. He isn’t _that_ desperate to get laid. It’s been a while, sure but at least he was in a stable relationship at the time and got laid _regularly_. He shakes his head. “I’m not some _shirt_ you can try on just to leave on the rack in the dressing room. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Then what did you come to a club for?” He hears her shout at him as he walks away.

It’s probably one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do but he’s proud that he did. He felt a really strong connection with her—even if they were only just dancing—so he’s still disappointed.

There’s really no use in trying to find Jonathan in this mess so he just heads out to the roof. It’s technically still a part of the club, but it’s more mellow. The music is not as obnoxious or loud and only a few people are up there, drinking casually. The cold air biting his skin feels awesome after weaving through the sweaty bodies in the club.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and slides it open to Clary’s text. It says _ugh u guys suck im on my way over there_ and he thinks maybe tonight won’t be so bad with his best friend here. He calls the number to check in and see where she’s at, but it goes straight to voicemail which is really unusual. Simon frowns at her face on the screen.

“You’re really bad at running away,” a voice from behind him says, the girl from inside.

He shuts the screen of his phone off. “It was sort of a social experiment,” he turns towards her, “coming out tonight. I’m not usually much of party person.”

“You don’t say,” she says teasingly.

“But that’s okay,” he waves his phone lamely. “My friend’s heading over, so this night won’t be so disastrous.”

The girl moves closer to him. “And why is it such a disastrous night?”

“Are you—you’re kidding me right? Maybe it has something to do with ruining my chances with a gorgeous girl because of my clearly idiotically high expectations of hooking up at a club.”

She looks amused. “What _were_ your intentions tonight, if not a casual hookup?”

Simon sighs. He’s really going to have this conversation? “Is a casual _relationship_ a thing? Like. Platonically, even. I’m not really a one night stand kind of guy.”

She looks at him blankly.

“I guess that’s too much to ask for,” he sighs. “I’m trying to expand my horizons? My best friend told me I need to get out more.”

“At least you’re trying,” she pats his shoulder. “Is this the same friend that’s on his way?”

Simon tries not show how much her touch is affecting him but. There’s a hot girl touching his shoulder. It’s pretty cool. “Her. On _her_ way. But yes.”

If she’s offended, it doesn’t show. “Is she the reason stopping you from a hookup then?”

“No,” he says quickly, as if reassuring her. “Not at all. Maybe at one point. But that was long before I knew what a one night stand was. She’s kind of an asshole.”

She laughs brightly and it warms Simon all the way to his frozen toes. She shifts closer and looks up at him from under her lashes. “I’d like to meet her.”

“You will,” their breaths mingle as she moves closer. “Hey... uh,” he stutters because he realizes he still doesn’t know this girl’s name.

She seems to catch on because she says, “Isabelle. Izzy.” Their lips almost touch. “Yours?”

“Simon,” he tells himself to pull back but he can’t so he just says, “You know I don’t—”

“What happened to expanding your horizons, Simon?”

She’s right. And she’s staring up at him and her eyes are wide and dark and he wants to drown in them.

“Promise me one thing,” their lips brush as he speaks. “Will I see you again?”

She stares right at him. “Yes.”

So he cups her cold face in her hands and kisses her.

* * *

 

Jace doesn’t know what to expect when he opens his eyes.

One minute he was on the way home lecturing Max about sneaking out _again_ and the next he was climbing out of a trainwreck. Firefighters and police officers and helicopters surround the crash.

His only worry is Max. But none of the exposed bodies are him and he’s too afraid to uncover the bagged bodies.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of orange. He turns to see the cute witch girl from earlier. She’s standing amidst the chaos, the burning train behind her. From what Jace can see, she looks okay—just shocked. She’s staring at the ground, at what seems to be another body. Wind billows through her messy hair (she seems to have lost her hat) and her arms hang limply at her sides. Even from here he can see the goosebumps on her legs. He’s tempted to go see if she’s alright but—Max.

He fights his way through the crowd of frantic families and officers, desperate to find his baby brother. He’s honestly kind of shocked no one has stopped him to check and see if he’s injured. He doesn’t feel hurt, doesn’t look it either, but he could be. No, he _must_ be. He was in the worst part of the crash, right before the explosion. He checks himself and doesn’t find any blood. It must be the adrenaline pumping through his veins blocking any pain.

Jace finally looks up, after having checking himself for visible injuries, and stops cold. His heart stops.

It’s not Max’s body he sees.

It’s _his_.

Blood is seeping through his shirt. His hair is darker, matted with it too. His leg is askew, opened right up along his calf. He can see the muscle clearly, down to the bone. He looks away and down at himself.

 _Am I dead?_ He thinks. _Am I dead?_

A paramedic is hunched over him. He can see her check his pulse, and signal over some help. Several medical technicians get him onto a gurney and into the back of an ambulance and he rushes after them.

There’s something he’s not understanding. He certainly doesn’t _feel_ dead but. That’s his _body_. It’s a little surreal and all too terrifying and he’s pretty sure he’s going through an existential crisis even though he’s only twenty-two.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he says loudly. No one pays him any attention.

And— _Max._ Where the hell is Max? He wants to hit himself for not finding him before leaving the wreck. But Jace can see clearly behind him an ambulance, and another in front of him. He can’t see very clearly who is lying on the gurney in the truck behind him, but he can spot dark shaggy hair in the one in front of him and he knows there is a chance it’s not Max but he can’t help but feel a little weight lift off his shoulders.

“Hey,” he grabs a paramedic’s shoulder, “can someone just tell me what the hell’s going on?”

He groans in frustration when no one reacts to him. “Just— _what happened_? What derailed the train?”

When still no one pays him any attention, he forces himself to sit still and stay quiet. There’s nothing else for him to do but wait.

They arrive at the nearest hospital in twenty minutes. He steps out of the back of the ambulance gingerly, oddly feeling a little sore and achy. He distantly hears the _thwop thwop thwop_ of a helicopter. He looks up and sees two: one rescue copter has already arrived while the second is just landing.

 _What happened?_ Jace thinks again.

He follows the medical team—and his body—into the hospital. It’s in a state of panic. Doctors, nurses and emergency medical technicians dance around each other in the chaos. Just by looking at it, Jace knows no doctor will be in the on-call room tonight.

Jace recognizes some of the passengers from the car he was in. The old man with a scraggly white beard and a hefty bag. A college-looking student who had been scrolling through her iPod. Jace’s stomach drops when he notices the very-pregnant woman lying lifeless on a gurney rushing by. He hopes she isn’t as lifeless as she looks. But still no Max.

He rushes after his body before he loses sight of himself, which—he realizes this is all too surreal and really hopes this is just a really weird dream.

They take him into an elevator and he squeezes into the corner. He follows them and his body to ICU. They’re talking fast, too fast for Jace to comprehend but he hears something about severe head trauma which caused his brain to swell. He suddenly feels lightheaded and has the sudden urge to find a toilet to throw up in.

But at least he knows he’s not dead, and likely won’t be but who knows how long he’ll be in a coma? And how is he _here_? How can he still touch things but no one can see him?

He walks beside his body and watches as a nurse fiddles with his IV and mobile monitor. Jace stares down at his lifeless form. He is still very clearly bleeding from the head, ribs, and leg and his face is littered with bruises and cuts. He should be in so much pain right now.

The doctors wheel him through the O.R, effectively cutting him off. He stops short in front of the door and when it doesn’t open, he heaves a sigh. He shuffles to the nearest waiting room. The clock on the wall reads just past three in the morning. He’s tempted to go and find Max but has no knowledge of where the hell he could even be or getting around the hospital. So, not wanting to miss when they wheel his body out of the operating room, he goes back to the locked door and slides to the floor. No one will notice him there.

Oddly enough, even in this state of not-dead-not-alive, he feels exhausted. His head thumps back on the wall behind him and he shuts his eyes.

Two hours later, he’s woken rudely when the door to the O.R finally slides open. He—or more accurately, his _body_ —is now wearing a hospital gown. His leg was clearly operated on and though he can’t see it, his ribs and his head must have been as well.

He follows the nurse and his body back into the elevator and onto another floor. It’s less chaotic and more standard, meaning it’s probably just a bunch of patient rooms. They push him into Room 704 and he stashes the number in his memory. He ditches his body to go look for his brother. He rushes from room to room, peeking into each doorway but coming up empty. He doesn’t think Max is that young anymore to be in the pediatric ward so that must mean he’s still in the ER or—

He doesn’t want to think about it.

The next room he looks into makes him stop.

The girl from earlier sits in a chair next to the person in the bed. Oddly enough, the girl is barefoot.

Her head snaps up when she hears him. Her eyes are rimmed red, like she’s been crying for hours. Then her eyes narrow at Jace, suspicious. Then her eyes widen almost comically.

“You?” She asks, unbelieving.

“Me,” Jace confirms, mostly to be an asshole.

“You can see me?”

That explains her incredulous tone. And Jace realizes with a start that she can see him too. “ _You_ can see _me_? No one’s even looked at me since the crash.”

She shakes her head, astonished. “Me neither. I—” she chokes and her eyes shift to the body on the bed.

Jace’s eyes follow hers and then he gets it. “Oh,” he says dumbly.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “You too?”

Jace nods, because yes, him too. They are both staring at her body in the bed, a bandage wrapped around her head. Blood sprinkles the cloth.

He stares at her. “What’s _happening_?”

* * *

 

It’s four in the morning when Simon wakes up later that night in Isabelle’s bed. She’s sound asleep next to him, her creamy skin glints in the moonlight and he bites back a smile. Maybe coming out tonight wasn’t so bad. He looks over at his phone on the bedside table, the source of his waking up. The news app he subscribed to a few months back (because he never has time to actually _watch_ the news) flashes on his screen.

_14 Dead and 8 Hospitalized in New York Train Derailment_

_Camille Belcourt_ _6 AM EST          November 1, 2015_

_Authorities investigate exactly what happened late last night on Halloween when a New York subway jumped track and folded in on itself..... Paramedics arrived on the scene in minutes when the train exploded due to a gas leak.....  It was reportedly travelling faster than normal and employees say the conductor had been working overtime. The best conclusion is that he or she had fallen asleep on the job, causing the train to derail. Whether charges will be pressed against the conductor is still unknown..._

The article goes on to explain what line derailed and Simon’s stomach drops. Clary was supposed to take that line down to Pandemonium. He scrolls through his messages, desperate to see a text telling him she was okay but the last one sent is still   _ugh u guys suck im on my way over there_. Simon sits upright, fumbles for his glasses and scrambles to put on his boxers. He tries Clary’s phone three times before tossing it on the table, frustrated.

His stomach drops when he realizes Clary never got back to him last night. She never confirmed arriving to the club or even stepping off the Metro because she know he’s a worrier. He glances back at Isabelle, still asleep in her bed and suddenly he feels like shit.

What if something had happened to Clary?

He rushes around the room, grabbing his clothes that were haphazardly thrown about and shoves them on.

Isabelle finally notices a lack of a warm body in her bed and sits up on her elbows. She sees Simon pulling on his shoes. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying a snide comment to hide how hurt she is. “Leaving so soon?”

Simon’s head snaps up and his glasses nearly fall off his face, barely catching them at the edge of his nose. “Isa—Izzy. I’m sorry, I really am, but there’s been an accident. A trainwreck a few hours ago. My friend was on it.”

She keeps her face neutral. “What line?” He tells her the color, and she can feel the blood drain from her face. “My brothers were on that line,” she breathes.

Simon’s hands are shaking, but he manages to find Izzy’s bra and throws it to her. She catches it, gets dressed, and they rush out the door together.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY GOSH wow it’s been so long! here’s the gist of my absence: surgery, slow recovery, bronchitis, wisdom teeth, more surgery, and writing for other fandoms OOPS  
> and obvs im super good at procrastination  
> on that note, this chapter is kinda bullshit

**with shortness of breath, you explained the infinite**

* * *

 

On their way out of the apartment, Simon calls every hospital in the borough to find his friend. He and Izzy rush to her car in a frenzy of panic.

The roads are relatively empty, only a few drunk staggerers leaving bars and clubs. Simon clutches at the handle because this girl is a terrifying driver.

“Well?” She demands. “Did you find them?”

“You know,” Simon bites back at her, “this isn’t exactly easy for me either. You can tone it down.”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she grips the steering wheel. “My brothers were on that train. My little brother—if he—I don’t—” her breath hitches, eyes water.

Simon takes one of her hands and squeezes. “I know. I don’t know what I’d do if Clary—” he shakes his head, doesn’t allow him to think that thought. “They’re gonna be okay, Iz. All of them.”

The street lights create shadows over her face as they pass underneath them and she looks at him with so much hope, he almost believes it too.

~

Clary sits with her hands folded in her lap. She’s still in her cute lacy black dress (she took off the fishnets though—it felt almost _wrong_ wearing them in a hospital next to her unconscious body) and she wouldn’t mind it if she weren’t so cold.

“You look like you’re attending your own funeral,” the guy—Jace, she thinks—comments.

She stares. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.”

He sighs, runs a hand down his face. “I’m going to—my brother’s around here somewhere. I need to go find him.”

Clary nods and leans her head back. She remembers the teenager he was arguing with. “That’s fine. I hope he’s—okay,” she finishes lamely. She gestures to her body, “We’ll be here.”

And—she must sound so pathetic because he actually stops in the doorway and looks at her with softened eyes. “Do you want to come?”

She clenches her hands in her lap and stares at her body lying in the bed. The bandage wrapped around her head, a little saturated with blood; the deep gash on her cheek that’s been stitched up and the IV in her arm, just under the crease of her elbow, fluids pumping into her. The paleness of her skin, the purple bags under her eyes. The cuts and scratches littering her arms and her legs.

She doesn’t understand anything that’s going on. Where she is or why she’s in the state she is.

But she _is_ curious about one thing.

Clary reaches out to the wall. She thinks about closing her eyes but for some reason that seems too stupid. When her fingers touch the cool surface, she huffs in disappointment.

“Well,” Clary sniffs indignantly. “I dare say this whole ordeal is bullshit. If I’m going to be dead, I want to be able to go through walls.”

Jace does not look impressed. “Half-dead, remember? Your body is like, three feet away from us.”

Clary shakes her head, still disappointed. She stands up. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Ready?” he asks, clearly amused.

They find a general map of the hospital and try to navigate their way around but the place is just so damn _huge_ and there are so many _hallways_ and things like machines and mobile beds lying against the walls, and _people_ walking around.

And it’s not like they can just _walk through anything_ to move around faster.

Clary’s bitter.

She glances at Jace sidelong. He’s determined, clearly, to find his little brother and Clary can’t help but admire that. She wonders where her own brother knows where she is right now. If he knows what happened.

“It’s Jace, right?” Clary asks.

He eyes her warily. “Yes. How’d you know that?”

“I was listening to your conversation with your brother,” she says shamelessly.

“Oh, you mean when you were _objectifying_ me?”

“Yeah, the same way you were objectifying  _me_.”

His mouth snaps shut, his eyes narrow. “Touche.”

“I’m Clary,” she offers.

His smile is contrite. “I wish we’d met under different circumstances.”

She rubs her arms. “Don’t say that like someone’s dying here,” and when he just _looks_ at her, she snaps, “ _No one_ is dying here. Not you, not me,” a little softer, “Not your brother. We’ll be fine. We’re all fine.”

He turns away from her, clenches his jaw. “Yeah,” he says roughly.

They don’t end up finding his brother. “Not _yet,_  Jace. It’s only been a few hours and this hospital is _huge_. He may not even be injured,” Clary had insisted.

But still Jace isn’t reassured. Having Clary with him helps, sometimes. Because she’s right; he might _not_ even be hurt, might not have even checked into the hospital. Max was closer to the exit than Jace. He could have gotten out before him, could have been safe.

Or he couldn’t have.

Jace doesn’t want to think about that possibility. A small part of him dies everytime he does but. In a situation like this, he can’t exactly help it.

They’ve somehow ended up at one of the reception desk entrances in the hospital. The sun is only just coming up and the sky is a weird color of purple and blue, and Jace is still trying to get it out of his head that Max is dead when Clary gasps softly beside him.

Her hands are folded underneath her chin. Water builds up in her eyes. “Simon?” she whispers.

Jace follows her line of sight. A lean boy stands at the desk, gesturing wildly with his hands. His glasses sit on his face, askew, and his t-shirt is inside out. His hair's a rat’s nest and his hands are shaking and Jace concludes that this guy is generally just a mess, if in an adorable kind of way. And Clary looks completely _wrecked_ when she sees him so he obviously means a lot to her.

Clary lurches forward, feet sliding, towards her friend. She moves to stand next to him. His hands tremble against the check-in counter and she places her own on top of his. He doesn’t even startle at her touch and all of Clary’s hope is gone.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist is saying. “but you have to have some sort of family relation to Clarissa, or a family member’s permission before you can see her.”

“ _Clarissa_?” Jace snickers.

Simon’s jaw clenches, and Clary can tell he’s holding back from exploding. “I _am_ —” he makes a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He gestures to his phone, like it’s its fault. “Her brother isn’t picking up.”

“She doesn’t seem to have an emergency contact,” the woman continues calmly. “What about her parents?”

“No,” Simon says lowly, and Clary can suddenly feel Jace’s presence much more strongly.

“Grandparents? Aunts, uncles?”

“She’s... There’s _no one else_ ,” Simon nearly yells. Jace’s warmth presses into her. She almost shrugs him off, insists she doesn’t need his pity, but she has to admit, she wants the comfort of another person right now.

But—Simon _is_ missing someone else. She traces a capital _L_ into his hand, willing him to feel it. To feel _something_.

Simon’s hand twitches, and she traces it again and again until—

He snatches his hand away, rubbing it slightly. “ _Luke_ ,” he breathes, and Clary’s heart nearly stops.

Someone—a girl—walks up to Simon, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. “I called Alec,” she says to him. Clary narrows her eyes. Simon doesn’t _know_ any pretty girls, let alone _talk_ to any. “He’s on his way.”

“Izzy?” Jace murmurs, moving away from Clary. Her head whips around to him, stunned.

Simon stares at her, a little lost in his thoughts. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I gotta—call someone. Stay here, okay?”

The girl watches him go with a somber expression on her face. Jace is still gawking at her, and Clary feels her muscles tighten up. She _is_ very pretty. Long, jet black hair reaching down to her waist. Tall, skinny with a hint of muscle. Clary is very envious of her arms. And Jace is currently looking at this girl like she’s a goddess, and even if she _does_ feel a sudden, unexpected wave of hot jealousy, Clary has to agree with him.

Clary shakes her head. She has no reason to feel jealous. No reason. They’re on the verge of _actual death_ here, for crying out loud. _Anyone_ can visit him, and she shouldn’t care.

The receptionist nods. “You can go and wait in Jonathan’s room until your brother gets here.”

“ _Jonathan_?” Clary mocks, and Jace sticks his tongue out. She doesn’t mention that her own brother’s name is Jonathan.

“Um,” the girl hesitates, looking back at Simon with the phone held to his ear. His grip is tight, evident from his white knuckles. “I think I’ll wait.”

Jace narrows his eyes. “They don’t know each other, do they?”

Clary straightens with sudden thought. “Oh my god, they totally did it.”

He scoffs. “Isabelle would never lower her standards to—” Clary cuts him off with a glare. “I mean. Okay, he’s cute, sure. But I mean—have you seen _her_?”

Clary crosses her arms. “Yes,” she grumbles.

“Okay,” Simon walks over, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. “Luke is on his way. He’s—sort of—” he winces, “her stepdad?”

“Sort of?” The receptionist raises a perfect eyebrow. “Young man—”

“Look, uh—lady,” Simon says, a little impatiently. “We’re all she has left, okay? Don’t you get that?”

Jace sobers up. His arm brushes Clary’s. “I’m sorry.”

She tenses. “What for?”

He shrugs, a little insecure. As if he’s never expressed sympathy before. “For your losses. I lost my own parents when I was a kid.” He nods his head towards Isabelle. “Izzy’s family adopted me. I got really lucky.”

Clary hugs her arms, closing herself off. “Why are you telling me this?”

He doesn’t look at her, the tips of his ears growing red. “Just to let you know I can empathize. That you’re not alone in what you might feel sometimes.”

She uncrosses her arms. “Well,” she clears her throat, “thanks, then.”

He glances at her. “Yeah, well. If we’re going to be stuck together, might as well support each other, right?”

Her stupid heart skips a beat. “Right.”

“Simon,” a voice gasps from the entrance. Clary’s brother stands there, chest heaving and hair askew. Clary really wants a hug from him. Jon gives the best hugs. “I got your messages.”

“Jon,” Simon sighs heavily. “Thank god.”

The nurse at the desk grants the boys permission to see Clary. Well—Clary’s body. Isabelle hesitates, though, to see Jace. She wants to wait for her older brother Alec and her mother, she insists, but Clary can see there’s something else.

“She’s scared,” he says quietly. “She lost her father in a nasty divorce a few years ago. He practically abandoned them. It fucked up her perspective on love and trust; she has a hard time letting people in.” Clary’s heart aches for her. “And now—” Jace’s voice cracks. “We have no idea where Max is, and here _I_ am,” he gestures to his body, helplessly. “She must think she’s losing her whole family.”

Clary grabs his hand, surprised to find it warm. “She’s _not._ We’re going to be okay,” she insists again, although she’s beginning to lose hope herself. There’s a _huge_ possibility that they _won’t_ be okay, in the end. She never allowed herself to think it, but she’s thinking maybe she should start. She swallows the sudden lump in her throat. “You said Isabelle’s father left—abandoned _them_. Didn’t he abandon you too?”

Jace smiles, but it’s humorless and cold. Clary holds in a shudder; she doesn’t ever want to see him smile like this again. “He never _had_ me. I was never his to begin with. He made that very clear.”

Clary blinks. What this man did is really no different from her own father. She twines their fingers together. “Well. Now you have me.” His lips part in surprise and she feels herself flush, but she doesn’t let go. She refuses to let herself get embarrassed. “We need to stick together.”

He ducks his head and laughs softly. Isabelle passes by, eyes red, but head held high. Jace looks sheepish. “I should go with her.” He drops her hand and she instantly misses its warmth.

She nods. “You know where to find me?” She hopes she doesn’t sound too expectant.

He smirks. “Yeah—and I’m holding you to that,” he says, following his sister.

_We need to stick together._

Clary follows Jon and Simon’s trek back to her room. They both sit in tense silence, out of fear for her wellbeing. As soon as her brother sees her broken body lying so still in the bed, he collapses against the doorway. Simon is barely keeping him upright, his knuckles white where he clenches the back of Jon’s shirt.

She thinks about what Jace said about Isabelle. Without Clary, Jon is truly alone. She clenches her fist. She won’t let that happen. She _can’t_.

She follows Jon as he staggers into the room. The room is just like any default hospital room. She remembers the time when she had her appendix taken out when she was 11; she was a child, so she was placed in the pediatrics wing. Her room then had been green and flowery, with Winnie the Pooh quotes littering the walls. But this new room is bare. White walls, white sheets, a dark green recliner in the corner and a standard chair against the wall across from the bed. A blue couch lined up along the wall against the windows. Deep red curtains that remind her of wine.

Her brother drags the chair to her bedside and gracefully collapses into it. He drops his face into his hands. Clary’s heart lurches. She hates to see him this way. He’s always been the stronger one; he was only twelve minutes older than her, but he’s always played the role of big brother. He always made sure she ate and slept, was always so positive and dropped everything to make sure she had a good day. When their mother first got really sick, he would make them both bagged lunches for school and place notes inside them just like their mother used to when they were in elementary school. Clary used to find them annoying, but now she could really use one.

And right now he looks so _broken_ and beat down. Simon sits on the couch against the windows, head hung, and his leg shakes, a nervous habit he can’t control. _I will get better,_ Clary tells herself. She has to.

She can tell he’s trying to hold it together, but his arms are shaking and his throat is bobbing. And then he says, “I feel like I’m failing everyone. It’s like Mom all over again,” and Clary loses it.

She runs out of the room, gasping for air. The lump in her throat is back, and it’s bigger and she can’t swallow it this time, it’s suffocating, suffocating, suffocating. She breathes heavily, heart beating faster, presses her hands to her eyes. She sees a plethora of patterns and colors in the blackness of her eyelids and she’s having a hard time breathing and faintly she can hear the panicked _beepbeepbeep_ of her heart monitor in the other room, and Jon and Simon’s startled yells as she slides down the wall outside the door of the room holding her body.

_They are five and have just moved into a new neighborhood. A nice, quiet suburban place with a mall a few blocks away. Not quite in the heart of the city, but close enough. Clary cries when she sees the house, because she still can’t quite process why they had to move to far. “It’s time for change, lovely,” her mother had told her. Clary hugs her knees against her torso, and Jon buzzes in his seat next to her, vibrating with excitement. “It’s gonna be so cool, Clary!” He tells her, eyes shining bright. The house is nice enough, sitting on a small hill with a small red tree planted at the corner of the lawn. They dig out the red wagon first. Clary gets inside and Jon pulls her up and down the sidewalk as Luke and Jocelyn begin bringing their boxes inside._

_Across the street, two children have mimicked them. “Hey, they copied us!” Clary says, bottom lip jutted out stubbornly. “It’s okay,” Jon says. “They can be our friends!” A boy their age sits in the wagon, just like Clary, and a girl slightly older than them pulls him. The boy has lots of little curls all over his head, big round glasses sit on his nose and the girl has long but matted brown hair, as if she had been rolling around on the ground._

_“Hi!” Her brother shouts at them from across the street. “What’s your name?”_

It was the first time she met Simon and his sister. _Rebecca_. Clary hasn’t talked to her in months, ever since she moved across the country with her fiance— _fiance_. They really grew up. And comatose be damned, she will make it to Rebecca’s wedding.

Clary lets her head fall back against the wall with a thud. Her heart rate slowed down a while ago. She looks up and can see tiny droplets of remaining tears on her lashes. It felt good to let go and just— _cry._ She closes her eyes and rests, just for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait x2  
> i don’t wanna abandon this story because i have a lot of ideas for it  
> but sometimes life sUCKs so just work with me here  
> and also sometimes i need a little motivation so feel free to message me and threaten to kick my ass if i don't update because I Really Want To but i’m also Really Lazy


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is like mostly filler and there’s gonna be probably one more filler before THINGS happen because im time jumping here and there SORRY THIS TOOK LONGER THAN I WANTED

**how rare and beautiful it is to even exist.**

* * *

 

Jace trails after Isabelle, but only after making sure Clary is secure with her people. He feels a pang of guilt when he realizes he doesn’t have a clue about how she’s holding up—his sole focus has been on finding Max.

It helps having her around, a constant reminder that he’s not alone in this mess. And it doesn’t hurt that she’s pretty. But Jace can’t allow himself to think that. There are more pressing matters at hand.

Izzy is silent on their way to his room. It’s a little worrying. He often hears her humming or even talking to herself when she thinks she’s alone. But now, her confident facade has dropped and anguish is etched on her face and her body is tense.

He follows her into the elevator. She presses his floor number and leans back against the wall. Jace watches her every move. Her head is bent forward, hair covering her face like a curtain. Fingers drum against the metal railing. The atmosphere is taut and rigid with her anticipation. She lifts her eyes to watch as the numbers change with each new floor. Tears glisten in her eyes but she refuses to let them fall, her throat bobs slightly.

Jace’s chest tightens. The elevator dings. Before the doors open, Izzy takes two deep breaths and composes herself. She holds her chin high—once again she uses the face of confidence. Jace wants to yell at her, grip her shoulders and shake her. She has a right to be scared, to _look_ scared because _god forbid_ she shows her true emotions at a time like this.

He follows her as she walks stiffly down the hall. Her gaze strictly focuses on the numbers of the rooms, not the patients inside. She stops directly in front of his room, takes a deep, shuddering breath, and enters. She whimpers at the sight of his lifeless body.

He looks away. Jace knows she’s allowed this grief. But he can’t stand to see someone so strong and fierce break down for someone like him. It reminds him that he’s loved and cared for, which is something he’s still getting used to after all these years with the Lightwoods. He never had this, with his real parents.

He sits by her side, on the cold tile floor as she cries for him.

Her hand dangles by his head and he moves so that she just barely touches him. She doesn’t move or startle. Jace wants to scream.

They stay like that for a while. Isabelle isn’t much of a crier, so she’s able to collect herself again in a matter of minutes.

There’s a rapid knocking on the door and Izzy stands to answer it, straightening her clothes but the door opens before she can get very far. Alec stands in the doorway, his boyfriend Magnus a few feet behind him holding on to a small hand. The hand is attached to their adopted son, Max. (Max’s birth parents named him, and Max Herondale is very smug about it.) The little boy’s fingers are painted a dark blue and the tips of his hair is dipped in blue dye (to match Magnus’s) and Jace can’t help but smile; the kid loves the color blue.

At the sight of her big brother, Izzy’s face crumbles again. “Max? Where’s—”

Little Max stuffs his fingers in his mouth. Magnus tugs them out. Alec is still staring at Jace, like he can’t quite believe his brother is lying in the hospital bed. He shakes his head, absentmindedly. “No, no—I-I don’t have Max, but,” Alec blinks rapidly when Izzy whimpers. “He’s _fine_ , Iz. Max is fine—he was taken to a different hospital because his injuries weren’t as severe. Mom and Dad are with him. They’ll be here in a few hours.”

Izzy heaves a sob too big for her body and Alec wraps her up in his arms and Jace feels his entire life deflate.

_Max is fine Max is fine Max is fine_

Magnus picks up his kid and brings him into the room. Little Max squirms in his arms until Magnus sits in one of the uncomfortable chairs; he jumps up almost immediately to go to Jace’s side. “Jay?” He says, slapping a small meaty kid hand against Jace’s arm, but Jace doesn’t feel it. “Sleeping?”

Izzy’s chin wobbles as she tries to hold in another sob. Alec soothes a hand down her long hair. “Shh, Iz.” He kneels down to his son. “Yeah, Maxy. Jace got hurt really badly and he needs to rest.”

Max’s brows furrow. “But Jay right there,” he says seriously. And then he points straight at Jace—the one standing near the door, away from the physical body.

Alec looks in his direction and shakes his head. “No, Max. Jace is right here,” he pats the bed.

He stares defiantly at his dad. “ _No,_ Jay _there!_ ”

Izzy whimpers again. “Alec. _W_ _hat_ is he talking about?”

Alec looks dumbfounded. “I-I don’t know.”

Then little Max runs up to Jace, reaches up his arms to hug his legs, but swings at nothing. He looks up at him with big eyes. “Jay?”

Jace’s heart stutters. He’s only _three_ , he doesn’t _know anything_.

Magnus comes up and scoops Max up. “There was sugar in his cereal,” he offers weakly. “It’s probably his imagination.” He shifts Max in his arms so he’s being cradled, though he is much too big to be carried like a baby. “Who needs a nap?” He pokes Max’s nose and he squeals. “That’s right. You do,” Magnus smiles. “I’ll go find an empty waiting room,” he tells Alec and Izzy.

When they leave, the room is silent save for the whirring and beeping machines.

Izzy grips Alec’s arm tight, staring at the spot Jace stands. Not looking at him, but through him, as if searching for what little Max saw. “Alec. What if Max really saw him? What if—”

" _Isabelle_ ,” Alec says sharply. “He didn’t see _anything_. You know how kids are—”

“Yes, I _do_ know how kids are,” she snarls through tears. “And you do too. You _know_ how some kids can see certain things we can’t.”

Alec’s shoulders deflate. “Then what is it you think he saw? Jace’s ghost? Does that make you feel any better about this shitty situation?”

Izzy resigns. “No,” she says quietly. A beat, and then, “I miss you,” she says, just as hushed.

Alec’s features soften. “I know. After this, Izzy, I _promise_ we’ll see more of each other. I’m—”

Jace leaves the room to catch a breath of air. To give the two siblings a moment together. They hardly open up to each other these days, what with Alec moving out and leading his own life, having his own kid. So he gives them this.

He makes his way down to Clary’s room. She’s a floor below him, and hospital elevators are always busy so he takes the stairs. He turns the corner and startles when he sees her on the floor against the wall outside her room. She’s curled in on herself, fingers curled tight in her hair, her whole body heaving. He rushes over to her side.

Jace curves a hand over her back and she shudders. “Clary?”

She shakes her head.

He sits down next to her, hyper aware of their touching thighs. He curls an arm around her shoulders, a little cautious—prepared to pull away in case she dismisses him. But she melts into his side, throwing a leg over his lap, an arm wrapping around his torso.

Jace can hear frantic beeping from the monitor in her room and it takes him a second to realize what it means. She’s panicking, her heart is racing; Jace knows that could be dangerous for her physical body—it could mean death if she wore out her heart.

So he gathers up the courage and pulls her further into him. Jace puts her hands over her ears, to block out the noise. _Calm down, calm down._ Hasn’t she suffered enough? Haven’t they both?

Eventually her heart rate slows down. The beeping in the other room fades away to her normal, steady heartbeat. Clary’s shoulders heave and she lets out a rough sob. He just makes soft _shh_  noises and curls his fingers in her hair.

She struggles to sit up. “S-sorry. That was really gross.”

He tugs her back down, hand wrapped around the back of her head. She nuzzles back into his neck. “It’s okay. This is a lot,” he sighs. “It’s really a lot.”

A small fist curls into the back of his shirt. “If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I’m here,” she says, a little wry and Jace is very aware of her mouth quirked up in a smile against his bare neck.

He involuntarily tightens his arms around her. “Oh thank god,” he rolls his eyes, but a smile plays on his lips. He almost restrains himself from burying his face in her hair, but she offered comfort—even if it was sarcastic—so he stuffs his nose in her wild curls.

He never does get to tell her what little Max saw.

Things between them change, after that.

Who knew you can really get to know a guy when you’re in a state of not-alive and not-dead. In fact, over the next few weeks, Clary feels almost as close to him as she does to Simon. She learns that he is twenty-three, has no parents, and finds out what he does for a living.

(“I’m... I’m a dancer,” he says, a little sheepish.

Clary’s mouth waters. That explains his build—long legs, _really_ nice arms. “What—ah, what kind of dance?” She stutters smoothly.

His shy smile turns more careless and loose. “Everything, really. I’m actually on broadway.”

“ _Broadway_?” Clary wants to pull her hair out and scream. This is her dream come true. “Which shows?”

He twists his mouth to the side and hums, thinking, and Clary wishes she didn’t want to bite his lips so bad. Being stuck with only him as company would be so much easier if she didn’t have a stupid crush. “Newsies, The Lion King, Wicked and very recently, Hamilton.”

Clary feels her heart palpitate, shrivel, and die. “H-Hamilton?”

The corner of his mouth kicks up. “You a fan?”

“Am I a—” Clary clears her throat. “Yeah, you can say I am.” She’s learning self-control. It’s a long process that she has been going through so far for twenty years, but she’s getting there. It’s like a boardgame; she just earned herself three steps forward.

He grins wider. “C’mon. I know you want to geek out. Don’t hold yourself back.”

And now three steps back. “So you’ve danced with Thomas Jefferson?”

Jace laughs. “Yeah, Daveed. He’s really cool.”

“Do you think... after we get out of this mess,” Clary twiddles her fingers, “that I could meet him?”

He tugs on her loose curl. “Yeah. You can meet the whole cast.”

She smiles back at him, bright as the sun.)

And he learns she’s twenty, has a dead mother, no father, and makes some decent money off of Youtube and does art commissions when she’s free.

(They’re sitting on the roof a few days after Clary pathetically cried on him and she’s wondering when she’ll ever get home, _if_ she’ll ever get home to her blog and her normal life. And then it hits her.

“My blog!” She cries.

Jace stops clawing at the gravelly roof. He can’t even pick up the small pebbles and broken rocks that litter the ground. He’s upset. “Your what?”

“I run this—this blog and a vlog, occasionally, and I have a small army of people who follow me and enjoy my content—for some reason?—and there are small confused preteens who look up to me! They’re not going to know what happened to me or why I haven’t been posting!” Her poor preteens.

He smirks. “You run a blog? For preteens? What exactly is your content?”

“Um—just, y’know. Life skills.”

“Makeup tutorials?”

“Makeup tutorials.”

Jace laughs, bright and loud and it sends an unfamiliar but welcoming jolt through Clary. She bumps her shoulder against his. “Not just, though. Drawing tutorials, book reviews. Occasionally a gaming video featuring my best friend, positive _stay in school, kids!_ videos. Sometimes I just talk about my day,” she shrugs. “I love it.”

He smiles down at her. “Sounds like it. Makes me wonder why you’re still in school.”

Startled, she looks at him. “What?”

He shrugs. “You love what you do. You love running the blog and you love your fans. Yet, you’re in school to be an art teacher.”

She frowns. “I—”

“I’m not saying drop out,” he leans back, stretches. “I never went to college, so I can’t tell you what to do. I never saw the appeal—it stressed out everyone I know who went, they were never happy. So why should I put myself through the same?”

“But... I can’t just do Youtube for the rest of my life. That’s not how it works.”

“Hey, it works for some people. Maybe if you do better content...” he teases.

She rolls her eyes, trying not to smile. “Well, I’m a realist, not an idealist.”

He cracks a grin. “So I guess you could say being half-dead with me isn’t exactly your ideal date.”

She makes a disgusted noise at him, but she doesn’t deny it. _She’s cute_ , he decides. _I’ll keep her._ )

And when they’re bored, they follow doctors into the O.R.’s, although the first time doesn’t go very well because it turns out the surgery they go to observe is Penile Enlargement Surgery—a surgery Clary didn’t even know was _performed_ at this hospital, and while she’s fascinated by it, Jace pukes in the corner when the sharp tool gets too close to the guy’s dick.

“You would make a horrible doctor,” she tells him.

He glares at her, wiping his mouth. “I don’t even know what I could _throw up_ ,” he growls. “I haven’t eaten in _two months._ And now I’ll taste bile for _who knows how long_ because a toothbrush is _too heavy._ ”

Clary stares at the vomit. It’s lumpy and a weird shade of yellow and gross. “Do you think they’ll be able to see that?”

He’s still scowling and Clary is having a hard time not laughing. “I hope they can. No one should ever get that close to someone’s dick with a knife.”

“Hey, they’re just trying to help the guy out. Don’t tell me you’ve never had petty insecurities about size.”

Jace bites his lip and smirks, which is not fair. He definitely wants Clary to die. “Nope.”

She bites her tongue. “Good... good to know,” she stutters and his smirk widens.

And this is how the spend a majority of their time together. And it’s—nice, despite the strangeness of it all. They still don’t quite know what’s going on, or how long they’ll be like this. All they know is they’re both in a coma. But it feels good knowing that they’re not alone. That they have each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek what im doing with the POV at this point lmao  
> it’s mostly in Clary’s POV but jumps to Jace in the middle of a sentence and then back to Clary  
> idk lol sorry


End file.
